Airstrip One – Ministry of Truth (Out of Ink)
Weather: damp, grey, and slightly authoritarian
Rations: cut again, but only on paper (which is fitting, since there is no paper)
Winston’s Diary
(Redacted in triplicate)
Another day in the free and fair Democratic Technocracy of Britain, where the garbage piles rise like monuments to decline, and rats now rival small dogs in both size and apparent authority. Birmingham, the jewel of the Midlands, has become something between Children of Men and a David Attenborough documentary gone wrong. Bin men are on strike, refuse covers the streets, and the most reliable economic indicator left is Will “Rat Man” Timms, who’s clocking 170 miles a day and fighting rodents armed with the nutritional benefits of pavement kebabs.
The Party says inflation is under control — or rather, it says disinflation now, since it sounds more scientific. Nobody knows what it means. But they assure us it’s fine, even as the Office for Budget Responsibility admits most economic data now resembles a pub quiz answer scribbled on a napkin mid-pint. Labour stats? Fabricated from surveys with a 12% response rate. GDP growth? Based on revised guesses and a spreadsheet powered by hope. But don’t worry — it’s all statistically significant.
And then there’s Trump — back on the throne across the Atlantic — declaring tariff “liberation day” and slapping 25% duties on British steel, cars, and dreams. Reeves says it will hurt the economy. Starmer says diplomacy is our best weapon. The rats say: “Thanks for the extra meat.”
Amidst this backdrop of cheerful decay, the Chancellor has bravely unveiled plans for more centralisation, more megafunds, and perhaps a shiny new slogan: “Squeeze the Savers, Feed the Rodents.” It’s unclear if this is official policy or just a side effect of living in a system that punishes prudence and rewards moral hazard with repo liquidity.
Meanwhile, the populace stays distracted. One half stares into their dopamine rectangles, the other into empty fridges. The telescreen offers a choice: arthritis jelly, varicose vein milk, or £49 miracle shoes. No mention of the £2.2 trillion quietly erased from household wealth via a data trick. No mention of the Bank of England’s repo firehose. No mention of reality.
And yet — there is hope.
Beyond the smog of propaganda and the shrill wail of collapsing institutions, something incorruptible hums quietly. A network with no central node. A ledger that does not lie. A money that refuses to be printed, censored, or confiscated. Bitcoin.
In a land where rats overrun cities and numbers are forged in ministry basements, this incorruptible code is quietly becoming the real protest. Not with slogans, not with strikes, but with exit. One sat at a time.
The Party cannot inflate it. The rats cannot chew it. The Chancellor cannot tax what she cannot see.
So I write, not with despair, but with defiance.
Fix the money. Fix the smell.
Until tomorrow,
W.
#DownWithBigBrother
#BitcoinIsHope #RatManCometh #AirstripOneUnplugged
